Re: TWG XCVIII: A bunch of people in a room playing mafia
Fiction, Fiction, Fiction. When I look at this shit you know what I see? I see nothing except this humid foggy haze.
It is supposed to distract me from something, I suppose. Like a fat girl wearing a black dress and neon shoes. Or like Mr. Tooth Decay's furlong grizzly beard. My mother goes with the New Agey shirt-dresses, they work just as well.
After each post what I see is the almost opaque vapors of your aroma. You see it too and envision it differently. Some crafted scent, layers upon layers of subtle aromas to create this air of whistful seeker, a fencing debonair, a master of the wolfish parry to the lynching riposte. A gift from some Parisian parfumerie.
Little dogs think they can chase cars friend, and your aroma smells like shit. It attacks all my senses and leaves my mouth tainted with a thick, filmy aerosol taste. It makes me ask myself if I can even smell that hint of intention, if it deserves to linger in the air alongside the last hanging syllable of a phrase like c'oup de grace.
It does not. It displays a disordered sense of the histrionic sort. Some sort of clamoring for attention. Not because this crowd is a group whose attention you particularly need, but because you cannot managed to roll off the couch with that sloth-like red wine hangover without the sense that what you will be doing will command the thoughts and minds of someone, anyone.
But you know what this predilection for wasting my fucking time lacks? It lacks bloodthirst, which I feel even the most refined, articulate, and poised fencer must have for a c'oup de grace.
Fiction, Fiction, Fiction. When I look at this shit you know what I see? I see nothing except this humid foggy haze.
It is supposed to distract me from something, I suppose. Like a fat girl wearing a black dress and neon shoes. Or like Mr. Tooth Decay's furlong grizzly beard. My mother goes with the New Agey shirt-dresses, they work just as well.
After each post what I see is the almost opaque vapors of your aroma. You see it too and envision it differently. Some crafted scent, layers upon layers of subtle aromas to create this air of whistful seeker, a fencing debonair, a master of the wolfish parry to the lynching riposte. A gift from some Parisian parfumerie.
Little dogs think they can chase cars friend, and your aroma smells like shit. It attacks all my senses and leaves my mouth tainted with a thick, filmy aerosol taste. It makes me ask myself if I can even smell that hint of intention, if it deserves to linger in the air alongside the last hanging syllable of a phrase like c'oup de grace.
It does not. It displays a disordered sense of the histrionic sort. Some sort of clamoring for attention. Not because this crowd is a group whose attention you particularly need, but because you cannot managed to roll off the couch with that sloth-like red wine hangover without the sense that what you will be doing will command the thoughts and minds of someone, anyone.
But you know what this predilection for wasting my fucking time lacks? It lacks bloodthirst, which I feel even the most refined, articulate, and poised fencer must have for a c'oup de grace.
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